


betting warmth against the cold

by glueskin



Series: ffxiv hell [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Enthusiastic Consent, Insomnia, M/M, Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Non-Human Genitalia, Sign Language, Twin Warriors of Light, mild alcohol consumption, mute character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-06 05:25:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19056100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glueskin/pseuds/glueskin
Summary: unable to sleep, acatae'a takes haurchefant up on an offer for a drink.they do more than just have a drink.





	betting warmth against the cold

**Author's Note:**

> !!! NO HEAVENSWARD SPOILERS !!!
> 
> i started playing ffxiv in...early april? and just finished ARR and am barely into HVW (i think im about to go on a roadtrip through the coerthas with estinien and alphinaud and maybe iceheart which seems like an absolute disaster but also really funny) so please... have mercy on me
> 
> now, about the fic: this is THE most self indulgent thing ive ever done lol. the alcohol consumption is minimal and doesnt impair either of their judgement, acatae'a is mute from a past injury and haurchefant is careful to communicate with him properly, and the genitalia tag...uh... :) miqo'te!
> 
> i have SO much ffxiv fic i want to write but i will wait until i play more. i have so much gen stuff planned for my wols and also other ships and characters.....trust me....
> 
> akhar and acatae'a are twins, akhar clowned the gender binary and uses they/them. thanks for coming to my ted talk enjoy the good food

Acatae’a can’t sleep.  
  
He’s tired—exhausted, actually, both physically and emotionally. But he simply can’t sleep. His body feels tense, his mind wide awake and caught in an endless cycle of _what if we’re too late_ and _we can’t be too late._  
  
At least Akhar has finally found rest. After hours of restlessness, days of refusing to sleep for more than thirty minutes at a time, the lack of it all has caught up to them and pulled them into a deep slumber.  
  
Usually, this would ease Acatae’a into sleep as well. Hearing his twins slow, deep breaths—an audible reassurance—tends to help him when the fear sinks in at night.  
  
But not always.  
  
Slowly, Acatae’a eases himself out of their shared bed. Akhar makes a soft noise, clutching the piles of blankets tighter around their body and unconsciously shifting to the now-empty space where Acatae’a had been. His chest hurts at the sight even if he knows that they’re only seeking the warmth he left behind.  
  
He checks Alphinaud on the other bed—deep asleep as well, for the first time in over a week. He works too hard, Acatae’a thinks, pushing on without ever stopping to care for his own body. It had taken the approach of a fever to get him to stop even for a night in Dragonhead to recuperate.  
  
Carefully, he takes one of the extra blankets stored under the beds and piles it onto the several Alphinaud already has, just in case, before he finds his boots and creeps out of the room.  
  
He winces as the door closes with a clicking sound behind him, pausing, but he hears nothing indicating he had woken either Akhar or Alphinaud.  
  
“Heading out?” A rough, familiar voice asks quietly, and Acatae’a turns to see Cid seated by the window at the end of the hall. Acatae’a takes in the sight of him—the slump of his shoulders, the weariness in his eyes, the oil lamp with its wick nearing the end of its life. He can only imagine the sort of crisis he must be going through, hardly knowing who he is at all.  
  
Acatae’a nods. He doesn’t bother trying to sign anything—Cid doesn’t recall any Eorzean sign, and every time he tries, he can only manage what Acatae’a assumes must be Garlean. None of them have had time to bother teaching him.  
  
“They’re saying a blizzard might be coming,” Cid warns. “Be careful.”  
  
Acatae’a nods again, as if to say _I will_. Cid smiles, or at least Acatae’a thinks he tries to. He wonders if Cid has even forgotten how to smile and that thought hurts too much for him to contemplate, so he shoves it away as he makes his way down the stairs.  
  
The proprietress’ daughter is awake and tending the pseudo-bar in the dining area. She doesn’t meet his gaze as he passes her, face red from shame, and he wishes he could tell her that it’s fine.  
  
She hadn’t meant anything by it when she’d tried to approach him the day they had arrived in Dragonhead, he knows. Hadn’t known that he couldn’t speak to her, hadn’t understood that his silence wasn’t a rejection—though he would have rejected her regardless, for different reasons—and Akhar’s fury on his behalf when they had come back inside with Haurchefant at their side had been...well, appreciated, but somewhat humiliating.  
  
It’s embarrassing to remember, but it sticks in his mind regardless. Not because of the embarrassment of it all—both his own and that of the young woman’s—but because of Haurchefant.  
  
Acatae’a isn’t sure what to make of the man. His experience thus far with Ishgardian’s has been largely distasteful—most of them can’t be bothered to take the extra time to communicate with him if Akhar isn’t present and even the ones who know any sign are disinclined to use it unless he’s insistent, which he simply doesn’t have the energy to be these days.  
  
But Haurchefant is fluent. He takes the time. When Akhar isn’t with him, he speaks only with his hands and doesn’t even vocalize the way many hearing or speaking people do.  
  
That isn’t what haunts him, though. No. As odd as it is for a man like him, what Acatae’a finds himself thinking of is the way Haurchefant’s gaze seems to weigh on him so heavily.  
  
Akhar had joked about it, but it had been just that. A joke, Acatae’a thinks as he steps out of the inn and into the cold night. His breath clouds the air and he can’t stop himself from shivering despite the layers of clothes he wears.  
  
The sound of snow crunching under his own feet is unsettling. As he lifts his gaze up towards the sky, the lack of stars and visible moon are even more so—it sets him on edge in a way he never thought he would experience. He and Akhar had never been raised with the same faithful worship of Menphina as others of their kin, given how much of their childhood had been spent away from their mothers family, but being unable to see Her through the thick clouds makes his heart twist with anxiety.  
  
Beyond the settlement walls, the distant howling of wolves has his ears twitching upward. A guard from house Fortemp’s yawns at the gates a malm away, his partner on duty jabbing him with the dull end of his spear to wake him up.  
  
Hunching his shoulders and crossing his arms, Acatae’a wonders what in the Twelve he’s doing when the crunch of snow nearby causes him to stiffen.  
  
Glancing around, he relaxes when he sees its Haurchefant stepping out from the building he seems to both work and live in.  
  
He looks away quickly, staring instead towards the training area some distance away. While a few soldiers are usually at work, none but the guards along the walls are awake now.  
  
_Don’t come over here_ , he thinks to himself, face red from more than just the cold, the memory of Akhar’s sly comments still lingering in his mind.  
  
_The people around the settlement say he refuses to take a wife,_ they had said not even a week ago. _They say the rare ones ever seen leaving his rooms are men._  
  
He had snapped at them for gossiping, convincing himself they were making things up just to mess with him even though Akhar would never. He’s sure they would have kept up with it if Alphinaud hadn’t appeared.  
  
Despite his thoughts, he hears Haurchefant moving towards him. He staunchly refuses to look his way.  
  
“You are out awfully late, Acatae’a,” Haurchefant says when he’s close enough not to shout, though Acatae’a would hear him from yalms away regardless. He brings with him the scent of ink and sword polish, standing out starkly against the snow around them.  
  
Reluctantly, Acatae’a meets the Elezen’s gaze. His smile is warm and kind and his voice cheerful despite the shadows of exhaustion under his eyes.  
  
Uncrossing his arms, Acatae’a signs _“So are you,_ ” with a pointed expression. Haurchefant laughs with a somewhat abashed air.  
  
_“So I am,”_ he agrees, signing as well now that he has Acatae’a’s attention. _“I was dealing with quite the backlog of paperwork. I’m afraid I had left it too long.”_  
  
What he doesn’t say is that he had done so because he’d been investigating the Enterprise on their behalf, but Acatae’a knows and feels a small measure of guilt regardless.  
  
_“You can speak, you know,”_ Acatae’a says instead of commenting on that. His hands shake slightly from the cold, making him fumble on the signs. _“It’s easier, right? I don’t mind.”_  
  
Your voice is nice, is what he doesn’t say. Haurchefant looks startled regardless.  
  
_“Is that right? I suppose it’s habit. I learned as a child and had no need of vocalization since the one I learned for would not hear it. My good friend oft prefers silence when he refuses to speak, as well."_  
  
That first part makes sense, Acatae’a thinks, but for the rest...most people wouldn’t accommodate such a seemingly selfish demand. He knows this.  
  
_“You’re strange,”_   he signs, slower and more careful this time. Haurchefant smiles again, and Acatae’a thinks, _this is dangerous_.  
  
_“So I have been told,”_   Haurchefant responds. _“But enough of me, dear friend. You are trembling with this cold. What brings you out here?”_  
  
Acatae’a hesitates, hands paused in the air, before admitting, _“I couldn’t sleep. It’s been difficult lately.”_  
  
If it were someone else, perhaps the softness that enters Haurchefant’s eyes would be pity, and Acatae’a would hate it. Instead, it’s something closer to understanding—and this is a man who carries lives on his shoulders, so maybe it is. Acatae’a wonders how many nights this Lord of House Fortemps’ spends sleepless with only the ghosts of soldiers who have died on his orders for company.  
  
_“If you would like to escape the cold and your thoughts, mayhap I could offer you some_ —” Acatae’a stares, brow furrowed, not understanding the last word Haurchefant had signed. It must have been shorthand.  
  
_“Some what?”_ He asks, and Haurchefant blinks.  
  
“Ah,” he says aloud. “The word is different in common. I don’t know the short sign, I’m afraid, but I meant mulled wine.”  
  
_“Show me the word again,”_ Acatae’a says, and Haurchefant obliges, signing it letter by letter and then using the short sign again.  
  
“The word is _glögg_ in Ishgardian,” he explains. No wonder Acatae’a has never seen it before. “Would you care for some? The inn would have it—” Acatae’a immediately grimaces, and Haurchefant laughs.  
  
“Or, if you would prefer not to deal with young Ivelle, I have plenty of my own,” he offers.  
  
Unbidden, Akhar’s teasing returns to him. He tells himself that Haurchefant is only being kind in trying to spare him the embarrassment of dealing with that girl again.  
  
_“I don’t want to be a bother,”_   he signs, and Haurchefant’s smile eases.  
  
_“I would not offer if it were one,_ ” he responds, returning to signing as well. _“I’ve finished my work for the night. Truthfully, I can think of no better way to end a too-long night than in your company, if you would allow it.”_  
  
Despite the cold, Acatae’a feels warmth burn in his face and in his belly. That Haurchefant can say such a thing so honestly—he almost wishes that the man had said it aloud, just so that he could hear it.  
  
Maybe, he thinks with something like hope, the gossip Akhar had relayed wasn’t _just_ gossip.  
  
_“If you put it like that, how can I refuse?”_   Acatae’a signs helplessly. _“Very well. I admit, I’ve been wanting a drink since we arrived in the evening.”_  
  
He thinks there might be relief in Haurchefant’s expression. It might also just be his imagination, though, and he scolds himself for it.  
  
_“Then I shall gladly oblige you,”_   Haurchefant says and then gestures towards the building he had exited not long ago. Acatae’a follows after him, trying not to let his hopes rise too high.  
  
The guards at the door don’t even blink at the sight of Acatae’a despite the late hour. Haurchefant leads him past the heavy oak desk he resides behind during the day, through the locked door to the right and into a long hallway.  
  
_“I thought this would be where the servants quarters are,”_ Acatae’a signs.  
  
_“Staff are on the left of the building,”_   Haurchefant returns. Acatae’a doesn’t let himself think anything of the privacy they’ll be afforded.  
  
It’s just kindness. Nothing more, nothing less.  
  
The room Haurchefant brings him to has a large, heavy set door that he pushes open, gesturing for Acatae’a to enter.  
  
Haurchefant’s chambers aren’t as extravagant as Acatae’a expected, considering the man’s position. The room is certainly spacious, the fireplace well-stoked, but aside from the personal icebox there are no unnecessary decorations that flaunt his status. The closest thing would be an old, well-worn shield hung on the wall, bearing the crest of House Fortemp.  
  
_“It’s much warmer in here,”_   Acatae’a signs, putting relief in his expression.  
  
_“The maidstaff prepared the fire in advance,”_   Haurchefant says with a helpless looking smile. _“They know I’m loathe to waste their efforts. It is their way of making sure I do not work all night.”_  
  
Most people in his position wouldn’t tolerate such a thing, Acatae’a thinks, but doesn’t say it. Still, he finds his respect for Haurchefant growing—he understands more, now, why his subordinates hold him in such high regard.  
  
While his thoughts drift, Haurchefant heads towards a cabinet near the icebox by the bed. Acatae’a peels off his gloves, stuffing them in the pockets of his coat.  
  
“Would you like it heated, or is it fine as is?” Haurchefant asks as he opens the doors, glancing back at him.  
  
_“Room temperature is fine,”_ Acatae’a assures him, sliding his gaze to the bed when Haurchefant turns away again. It looks far more comfortable than the ones in the inn—the blankets thicker, softer, and he tears his gaze away before he can let that train of thought go any further.  
  
The clinking of glasses and the sound of liquid pouring draws his attention instead; Haurchefant pours a generous amount of dark amber fluid into both glasses.  
  
It’s been what feels like an eternity since the last time Acatae’a had a decent drink. When Haurchefant offers him the glass, he takes it gladly, trying not to stare at Haurchefant’s bare hands. Somehow, he hadn’t noticed when he removed his gauntlets.  
  
“A toast, hm? To what will surely be a victory for you and yours,” Haurchefant offers, lifting his own glass, and Acatae’a can’t stop himself from smiling as he knocks their glasses together.  
  
Hands occupied, he mouths the words _here’s hoping_ —Haurchefant seems to understand, his gaze soft, and they both drink.  
  
If nothing else, the Ishgardian’s are able to make good wine. The warm, spicy flavor slides down Acatae’a’s throat with a pleasant sting as opposed to a burn, the faint taste of ginger and cinnamon lingering even after he lowers the glass.  
  
Haurchefant places his own on the polished surface of the cabinet to ask, _“Do you mind if I remove my armor?”_  
  
_“Your rooms. Don’t need to ask_ me _,”_ Acatae’a tells him somewhat slowly and sloppily with one hand, emphasizing his words with a sharp gesture at himself.  
  
_“I wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable, that’s all,”_   Haurchefant says, but with Acatae’a’s words he sets about removing the layers of chainmail.  
  
Acatae’a watches even though he’d told himself he wouldn’t. Haurchefant removes each layer carefully; Acatae’a focuses on his fingers as he removes his shoulder guards, leg plates, and then the clasps that hold his chainmail together.  
  
Hurriedly, Acatae’a downs another mouthful of his drink. The warmth from the fire, the alcohol, and his own want are all becoming too much—under the several layers of his clothes, he feels as though he’s in Ul’dah instead of the Coerthas.  
  
Lowering his now-emptied glass, he glances back towards Haurchefant’s frame, his pale skin warmed by the light of the fire. Without the layers of armor and clad only in a plain tunic he seems thinner, but Acatae’a knows it’s deceptive.  
  
“Something on your mind, dear friend?” Haurchefant asks, catching his eyes, and Acatae’a prays that the color in his face can be blamed on the fire and the alcohol.  
  
Acatae’a shakes his head, not even bothering to sign. He uses his emptied glass as an excuse to move, approaching the cabinet to place it next to Haurchefant’s.  
  
He should have refused him, Acatae’a thinks despairingly. But even though he’s been trying to tell himself otherwise, he can’t help but hope.  
  
He hears Haurchefant’s boots against the cold stone of the floor, moving towards him. Maybe, Acatae’a thinks, _just maybe_ —  
  
Haurchefant lays a hand on his shoulder.  
  
“Are you alright?” He asks quietly, and Acatae’a sucks in a shaky breath, glancing up at him. Haurchefant’s genuine concern is too much.  
  
_“I can’t tell if,”_   he starts, then pauses. He has to force himself to move his hands. _“I can’t tell if you’re flirting with me or not.”_  
  
He usually can. If it were anyone else, all of Haurchefant’s actions would have told him that the rumors are true and that Haurchefant is interested in him. But this is an Ishgardian, and an apparent _Lord_ of the House Fortemps’ on top of it.  
  
Even if his interests lay with men, Acatae’a is hardly the type someone of his status would go for.  
  
So when Haurchefant says, “And here I thought I had been _too_ forward,” Acatae’a is surprised.  
  
“Does it bother you?” Haurchefant asks, now sounding somewhat anxious as he removes his hand. “I apologize if it does. I had thought—that is to say, you seemed receptive.”  
  
When Acatae’a glances up, Haurchefant’s ears are burning red.  
  
It’s...cute.  
  
Acatae’a turns, lifting his hands. Haurchefant blinks down at him, breath stalling as Acatae’a slides his fingers against his jaw.  
  
Rarely does Acatae’a find himself begrudging his lack of voice. He does at times like this, wishing he could speak as he once had—he wants Haurchefant to hear his voice, wants to tell him out loud exactly what he desires. His mouth opens, then closes, throat aching.  
  
Instead, he uses his gentle grip on Haurchefant’s face to urge him down, and Haurchefant follows with wide, hopeful eyes.  
  
_Akhar is going to be insufferably smug,_ Acatae’a thinks, and then pushes the thought aside for later as he rocks forward to meet Haurchefant half way, mouth catching his.  
  
Haurchefant’s hands settle on his shoulders, gripping strongly as he kisses Acatae’a back with an unexpected amount of wanting fervor. Acatae’a’s hands slide from his face to his hair, gasping as Haurchefant licks into his mouth—he kisses him so thoroughly Acatae’a can scarcely breathe, lungs and throat burning as he’s practically bent in half from the force of it.  
  
“Sorry,” Haurchefant breathes out when he pulls away, easing his grip on Acatae’a’s shoulders. “How—how terribly embarrassing of me. I’ve wanted to do that since Witchdrop, you see.”  
  
Acatae’a sucks in a deep breath, eyes wide and face red. That evening at Witchdrop feels like years ago, now, when in reality it had been barely a week—but he remembers the way Haurchefant’s eyes had lit up when Acatae’a left Akhar’s side to join him in battle, the breathless tone of his voice when, after it was over, he’d said that no healing had ever felt as warm as Acatae’a’s.  
  
_“Me too,”_   he admits with trembling hands, then grabs for Haurchefant’s face again. He can feel the man’s smile against his own—this kiss is all too short, Haurchefant pulling away too soon.  
  
“What do you want, Acatae’a?” He asks quietly, looking down at him with a focus Acatae’a can’t recall ever being directed at him before.  
  
It isn’t as though he hasn’t had lovers before, though not so many since the Calamity. Most men don’t have the patience to communicate with him the way he needs and others take his silence as allowance for things he doesn’t want—he’s had to be careful in those he approaches because of this, more so than he ever needed to before.  
  
But even then—even before, Acatae’a had rarely been looked at with such single-minded intensity. The last person...he doesn't think about him. Not now.  
  
Reluctantly, Acatae’a lowers his hands once more.  
  
_“As much as you’re willing to give,”_ he signs. And because it’s at least easier to be shameless without a voice, _“I’ve been trying very hard not to think about you fucking me since you invited me here.”_  
  
Haurchefant’s eyes go wide, face flushing as he flickers his gaze from Acatae’a’s hands to his face, the hands on his shoulders tightening their grip slightly in shock.  
  
“I see,” he says, sounding slightly strangled. “I hadn’t dared to hope…” he trails off, shaking his head.  
  
_“You don’t need hope now,”_ Acatae’a signs, moving his hands in a hurried gesture to get across his impatience. Haurchefant seems to understand because he smiles again, eyes softening with it.  
  
“Very well,” he says, a promise in his voice. “By the time I am done with you, Acatae’a, there will be no room left for restless thought.”  
  
_“I’m holding you to that,”_ Acatae’a signs, and hesitates briefly. But before he can express the thought that came to him, Haurchefant beats him to it.  
  
“If we are to do this,” he says, “Then if I am not watching your hands, get my attention like so,” he removes one of his hands from Acatae’a’s shoulders to so that he can snap his fingers sharply. It’s a simple gesture, but one that you wouldn’t perform in the midst of sex without a reason, and thus unmistakable.  
  
Acatae’a snaps his own fingers with a sharp sound. When he does, Haurchefant’s expression is full of relief and want both.  
  
When Acatae’a kisses him this time, Haurchefant doesn’t put a stop to it. Acatae’a grasps onto his arms and relishes the soft noise Haurchefant makes against his mouth.  
  
_“Bed?”_   Acatae’a asks one-handedly when he pulls back, and Haurchefant huffs a laugh.  
  
“Gods, yes,” Haurchefant agrees, and lets Acatae’a push him back several paces towards it. His eyes catch on the sway of Acatae’a’s tail behind him as the back of his knees hit the bed, Acatae’a pushing him down gently.  
  
“Can I…” he lifts his hands towards Acatae’a’s scarf, and Acatae’a smiles.  
  
_“Go ahead,”_   he signs, still using one hand as he climbs onto Haurchefant’s thighs. The other man is careful as he unwinds the fabric—when he tugs it loose, Acatae’a can see the realization flicker across his expression at the sight of Acatae’a’s scarred throat.  
  
There’s no pity, though, and scarcely any curiosity. A knight himself, he’s no stranger to scars and Acatae’a is comforted by the lack of questions as Haurchefant drops the length of wool over the edge of the bed. He knows it's a grotesque sight—the scars not smooth and pale but raised and still an angry red, as though they were healed far more recently than seven years ago.  
  
It's put off plenty of other potential hook ups before, but he's glad this won't be one of them.  
  
Acatae’a feels for the hem of his sweater and undershirts both, then tugs off all three layers at once, gasping as he pulls them over his head. He had been overheating in the damn things and it’s a relief to discard them, even without the additional pleasure brought from the way Haurchefant’s gaze rakes across his frame, hands lifting to grasp at Acatae’a’s waist.  
  
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, so quiet that Acatae’a wonders if he had meant to voice it at all.  
  
_“Flatterer,”_ Acatae’a signs, shivering at the feeling of Haurchefant stroking his hip. _“And you’re overdressed,”_   he adds, sliding a hand up the hem of Haurchefant’s tunic, causing Haurchefant to squirm slightly under his cold-fingered touch.  
  
“You may be right, but—it is not flattery if I speak the truth,” Haurchefant gasps out as Acatae’a pushes his tunic further up his chest. His skin is so pale that the flush crawling down his neck stands out brightly.  
  
Acatae’a leans in, pressing his mouth to Haurchefant’s jaw, his skin warm with the blood that has risen there. Beneath the scent of charred wood from the fireplace, the ink and sword polish that clings to Haurchefant himself, is that of sweat—and the taste of it, too, which Acatae’a relishes as he buries his face against Haurchefant’s neck, mouthing at his pulse.  
  
Haurchefant’s fingers flex at his hips, sinking into the skin reflexively as he makes a noise like a gasp and moan both at the feeling of Acatae’a’s rough tongue dragging against the skin. Acatae’a feels a surge of heat in him—at the taste of Haurchefant’s skin, the feeling of his dull-nailed fingers digging into his flesh.  
  
He straightens, removing his hands from Haurchefant’s skin with no small amount of reluctance.  
  
_“Are marks fine?”_   He has to ask, because his nails are more like claws and he knows he has a habit of biting—though nowhere near as badly as Akhar’s, if the state he’s seen Thancred in several times is anything to go by.  
  
“Absolutely,” Haurchefant breathes out, mouth curling as his hands slide up along Acatae’a’s sides. “And for you?”  
  
_“I like them,”_ Acatae’a signs, trying not to smile as Haurchefant gently tugs him back down, _“So don’t hesitate.”_  
  
Haurchefant doesn’t answer—he kisses him again instead and Acatae’a drops his hands back down to his shoulders, trying not to laugh when Haurchefant cuts his lip with a gasp on Acatae’a’s canines in his eagerness.  
  
Haurchefant’s own self-directed amusement spills into his voice when he breathes an apology against Acatae’a’s mouth; in answer, Acatae’a just smiles against it, licking into his bleeding mouth.  
  
It’s been a long time since Acatae’a tasted blood not his own or his siblings—his nails sink harder into Haurchefant’s shoulder as he savors the coppery tang. Haurchefant groans, hands gripping Acatae’a’s sides tighter, and the noise he makes when Acatae’a sucks at his bleeding lip is one he wants to hear again and again.  
  
So he sucks harder at that bleeding lip, trying to draw that noise out again—Haurchefant doesn’t disappoint, his whimpering moans catching in his throat as his hips jerk up in response to the stinging pain in his mouth.  
  
If Acatae’a could moan, he would. He can only gasp, inhaling sharply at the feeling of Haurchefant’s growing arousal against his backside. He can feel his face burning as he turns his head to breathe into Haurchefant’s neck instead, unable to stop himself from rocking back down against him.  
  
Haurchefant makes a cute, choked noise at the feeling of Acatae’a pushing down against his arousal, Acatae’a’s own grinding into his stomach. Under his mouth Acatae’a can feel the way his pulse quickens, can practically hear the sound of his blood rushing through his veins.  
  
Acatae’a almost feels like a teenager, rutting against him the way he is, but he has no shame in it. He pants into Haurchefant’s neck, a dull pain throbbing in his throat that does nothing to diminish the pleasure spiking through him.  
  
He lets out a gasping huff of air when Haurchefant tightens his grip on his waist, heaving Acatae’a up and rolling them both over—he stares up, wide eyed and breathless, at Haurchefant’s own red face and dark eyes. His mouth is wet and swelling from Acatae’a’s ministrations and the sight makes him dizzy with arousal.  
  
“Is this okay?” He rasps out and Acatae’a nods quickly, not wanting to let go of him to sign. With relief, Haurchefant lets go of him long enough to take off his own tunic at last—the mess he makes of his ashy hair in doing so is a mixture of cute and really, really hot—and discards the garment over the edge of the bed, leaning down to kiss him once more.  
  
Acatae’a clings to him greedily; without clothes between them he can feel the uneven edges of scarring along Haurchefant’s back. He digs the tips of his fingers into the skin, smiling at the way Haurchefant gasps into his mouth when he does. The hand stroking down his own side reaches the hem of Acatae’a’s trousers and he squirms to lift his hips eagerly. Turning his head, Acatae’a huffs as he belatedly kicks his boots off to allow for Haurchefant to tug off his trousers properly.  
  
Laying beneath him in only his thin undergarments, his swelling arousal plainly visible, Acatae’a should feel cold. Even with the heat of the nearby fire, the chill that permeates the stone walls of the room should seep into him, but if anything he feels feverish in a way he only experiences during heat season.  
  
Haurchefant takes in the sight of him, trembling with want and flushed down to his chest, and smiles. One hand strokes the jagged edges of a scar on his right shoulder, the remnants of an injury from a beast he can’t even remember. Acatae’a puts the blurry memories of the Calamity out of his mind, focusing instead on the warmth of Haurchefant’s calloused hand and the desire on his face.  
  
Reluctantly, Acatae’a drops his left hand so he can make the sign for _more_ , hoping the insistent look on his face and the sharpness of the gesture will get his impatience across. Haurchefant laughs, low in his throat and chest.  
  
“Very well,” he acquiesces, dragging his hand down from Acatae’a’s shoulder. “I simply wanted to enjoy the view, but I suppose I will have plenty of opportunity.”  
  
If possible, Acatae’a’s face burns hotter still at Haurchefant’s words as the man lifts a knee to allow Acatae’a to move further up onto the bed.  
  
He does so, shimmying back—carefully so as not to squash his tail under him—until he can drop his head on the pillows near the wood of the headboard; Haurchefant follows, sliding a hand up from his knee to his thigh as he does.  
  
“You are remarkably well built for a healer, you know,” Haurchefant remarks conversationally. Acatae’a wants him to hurry up, desperate for more of those hands to be somewhere other than his legs.  
  
_“The knives I wear aren't for show,"_   he signs, making the gestures as sharply impatient as he can.   
  
“Remarkable,” Haurchefant murmurs, shifting closer, hand still on his thigh instead of _anywhere else_. “You have such lovely muscle tone, Acatae’a. I had expected as much, but to see you like this...I truly am honored.”  
  
Surely looking more like a ripened tomato than anything, Acatae’a resists the urge to kick Haurchefant out of sheer embarrassment.  
  
_“If you don’t fuck me within the next ten minutes I might kill you,”_   he signs quickly, wishing he could speak if only to be able to protest loudly.  
  
Haurchefant trembles with held back laughter.  
  
“You are _far_ more eager than I expected,” he says, voice shaking as much as his shoulders with his amusement. But he shuffles closer before Acatae’a can say anything else, moving between Acatae’a’s legs and hooking a finger into the waistband of his undergarments.  
  
Oh. _Oh._ Acatae’a tries to calm his heart down, giving a frantic nod when Haurchefant glances up at him, and Haurchefant tugs down his undergarments with the type of care one might treat an expensive gift.  
  
He huffs with relief as the cloth is tugged down his thighs, carefully watching Haurchefant’s reaction—the way he wets his mouth at the sight of Acatae’a’s fully aroused cock does wonders for his self esteem, that’s for sure, as does the almost hungry look he wears. The lack of surprise in his expression is a relief.  
  
“Can you reach the drawer?” Haurchefant asks, lifting his gaze. Acatae’a props himself up on an elbow, reaching for said bedside drawer and tugging it open successfully. Though he can’t see the contents, he knows what Haurchefant must keep there and feels around. Paper, paper, a thin glass bottle that he quickly grabs.  
  
He knows what it is even before he sees the contents through the glass—a half empty vial of thick but clear fluid. He eyes the amount inside, then gives Haurchefant an amused expression.  
  
“Stress relief,” Haurchefant mutters, ears burning, and Acatae’a lets out a laugh that’s all air before he can stop himself. Haurchefant looks surprised, then pleased, taking the vial with minimal lingering embarrassment.  
  
He doesn’t open it immediately. Instead he leans down and Acatae’a exhales sharply at both the sight and the feel of Haurchefant taking his cock into his mouth.  
  
Only other Miqo’te or Au Ra partners have done such a thing. Acatae’a can’t look away from the sight of his length disappearing into the wet heat of Haurchefant’s mouth, fingers clenching into the sheets with the effort it takes not to push himself further in at the feeling of his smooth tongue.  
  
_Oh, Gods_ , he thinks, feeling faint as Haurchefant takes him into his throat, lips going over even the slight swell of his knot until his nose is buried in coarse hair.  
  
If it were possible he would be whimpering. As it is his throat burns uncomfortably with each lungful of air he takes, nails digging harshly into the soft bedding beneath him at the pleased noise that rises in Haurchefant’s throat.  
  
He likes it. Haurchefant _likes it_. He swallows, throat tightening around Acatae’a, who lets out a soundless, breathy moan, nails tearing into the bedding. Haurchefant doesn’t even react to the sound of ripping fabric, too busy focusing on slowly easing Acatae’a’s arousal out of his throat.  
  
The sight of his cock slipping out of Haurchefant’s swollen and damp lips almost kills him. Acatae’a stares unblinkingly as he licks at his mouth, evidently pleased.  
  
“You taste better than I could have ever imagined,” is what Haurchefant says, breathless as he leans in to mouth at the side of Acatae’a’s dick. What once would have been a moan instead sounds more like an unattractive, wheezing gasp that fills the back of his mouth with the tang of blood. Ignoring it, Acatae’a makes an awkwardly aborted movement with his hand, stopping himself from reaching to grab Haurchefant’s hair.  
  
“Go ahead,” Haurchefant says, because of course he noticed. He’s smiling as he says it, looking up at Acatae’a through his lashes, and _by the Twelve_ Acatae’a really might not survive this.  
  
Still, he tentatively lifts his right hand to tangle his fingers in Haurchefant’s ashy hair; the man sighs, mouth pressing against the underside of his cock, wetly kissing the swell of his knot. Acatae’a shakes at the sight, the feeling, nails scraping slightly against Haurchefant’s scalp as he once again takes him properly into his mouth.  
  
Acatae’a closes his eyes and takes a deep, shuddering breath. He hadn’t expected this. He’d expected quick and messy, desperate to relieve his own stress and relieve Haurchefant’s in turn—but Haurchefant is taking his time, sucking him off like he’s some sort of delicacy.  
  
A cool, damp finger at against his skin startles him into opening his eyes. He hadn’t heard Haurchefant open the vial and, Gods, Acatae’a can’t meet his eyes when his mouth is wrapped around him like that.  
  
It’s not easy to relax when Haurchefant is taking his dick down his throat again, but he does his best. Haurchefant is gentle in this, keeping a languid pace as he presses into him while still working Acatae’a with his mouth.  
  
Acatae’a prays for strength. He can’t come from this. He won’t. He almost does, just at the thought of Haurchefant swallowing if he were to do so; the combination of that thought and a second finger pushing in drags another desperate, would-be moan from his aching throat.  
  
Haurchefant’s fingers are longer than his. Thinner, too, but like the rest of him that belies his strength; they stroke deep within him easily, physically relaxing him even as his stomach seems to tighten with heat.  
  
At the feeling of Haurchefant moaning around him as he spills out no small amount of precum into his throat, Acatae’a desperately tugs at his hair with a shuddering gasp. Haurchefant lets himself be pulled off with an obscene popping sound. One hand still fisted in the sheets, Acatae’a lets go of Haurchefant’s hair to make the sign for _ready_.  
  
“Are you sure?” Haurchefant asks, brow furrowed, and the roughness of his voice doesn’t help the state Acatae’a’s in. Groaning noiselessly, he reluctantly uses both hands.  
  
_“I’ll die if you don’t,”_   he signs urgently. _“You’ve been going to town on my dick for too long. Fuck me before I expire on your bed.”_   As Haurchefant watches his hands move, his brows raise higher with amusement.  
  
“Well then,” he says, smiling, “We cannot have that, can we? To have you die without satisfaction after all you have done for me would be quite a shame.”  
  
_I haven’t done anything but lay here_ , Acatae’a thinks hysterically as Haurchefant shifts back, drawing his fingers out of Acatae’a with a wet noise. He watches, enraptured, as Haurchefant slips a thumb into the waistband of his own trousers and pushes down.  
  
The noise Acatae’a would have made is pathetic; as it is, the wanting sound that drags itself out of him is just a gust of air.  
  
He’d known Haurchefant was going to be big. Bigger than most Miqo’te and Hyur he’d been with, at least, but nothing that makes him blanch with trepidation the way that one Au Ra had.  
  
Maybe Haurchefant mistakes the expression on his face for something else, because he pauses.  
  
“Still alright?” He asks quietly, and Acatae’a nods quickly.  
  
_“More than,”_   he manages to sign, then makes a grabbing motion that makes Haurchefant swallow back a laugh as he shoves his trousers and undergarments down past his thighs, lifting his legs to get them off properly.  
  
When he moves to get closer, he pauses.  
  
“Will your tail be alright?” He asks, sounding so genuinely concerned about it that Acatae’a huffs with laughter of his own.  
  
_“It’s fine,”_   he signs parting his thighs and staring up at Haurchefant expectantly. His tail can handle at least this much, though most Hyur or Elezen don't think to concern themselves with it.  
  
Haurchefant’s expression eases, calloused hands sliding along Acatae’a’s thighs to his hips. Anticipation makes him tremble as much as the touch itself does as Haurchefant shifts between his knees, reaching his own hands to hook around Haurchefant’s shoulders once more .  
  
Haurchefant kisses him when he presses in, swallowing Acatae’a’s shivering gasp; his whole body shakes as he takes Haurchefant in, nails digging into his shoulders as he relishes the aching stretch.  
  
“Okay?” Haurchefant murmurs breathlessly against his mouth and Acatae’a nods, turning his head to press against Haurchefant’s throat the way he had earlier. He breathes into the damp skin as he feels Haurchefant’s bare thighs meet the back of his own, trying to hold back the impulse to bite into him—a difficult thing, but he manages.  
  
Impatient, he squirms his hips slightly, causing Haurchefant to flex his grip on his waist and suck in a strained breath.  
  
“You will be the end of me,” Haurchefant manages to get out, but he takes Acatae’a’s silent urgings for what they are and begins to move.  
  
His grip around Haurchefant’s shoulders tightens slightly, a long-winded gasp escaping him at the slow drag of Haurchefant’s cock as he pulls back.  
  
The heat that has been building inside Acatae’a seems to boil over, burning throughout his body—each pulse of his own heart seems to bring with it a new wave of it, nails scraping slightly into the sweat-slicked skin of Haurchefant’s back when he rocks in once more.  
  
Each deep, languid roll of Haurchefant’s hips has Acatae’a’s breath rattling. He tastes blood in the back of his throat once more, swallowing it down and almost choking on his own gasp.  
  
He hasn’t made so much noise in a long time. His throat hurts—a sharp, throbbing ache in his larynx—but the pain is buried under the waves of pleasure that crest in his belly with each agonizingly slow paced movement.  
  
_Faster_ , Acatae’a thinks, but can’t say it. He drops one hand from Haurchefant’s back with reluctance, turning his head to look at him when he makes the sign for it instead.  
  
The flicker of gentle amusement on Haurchefant’s flushed face is eclipsed by the want.  
  
“I usually like to take my time,” he says, voice only slightly uneven as he straightens his spine, Acatae’a’s other hand slipping from his shoulder. “But very well.”  
  
The way Haurchefant fucks into him then has Acatae’a wheezing on a gasp, vision blurring damply and fingers twisting in the sheets as his body arches up. Desperately blinking away the wetness clinging to his lashes, Acatae’a feels dull nails dig into his hips.Yet again the coppery taste of blood fills the back of his mouth from his throat, more clearly than it had earlier and bringing with it a familiar stinging pain—but again he swallows it back.  
  
It’s fine. The pain of it is drowned out by the dizzying pleasure from each one of Haurchefant’s quick, deep thrusts. Through his watery vision Acatae’a sees him lean in—he kisses Acatae’a once more. His mouth, then one of the bruises darkening the skin beneath his eyes, the tattoo at the edge; Acatae’a huffs, turning his head to let Haurchefant bury his face in his hair.  
  
“You’re exquisite,” Haurchefant breathes out. Acatae’a’s hands are too busy clawing away at the sheets so as to avoid tearing the other mans back to ribbons, or else he might try to protest. Haurchefant shifts his head, nosing down from Acatae’a’s hair to his bare neck; he shivers at the feeling of Haurchefant’s mouth against the uneven edge of his scars, at the wet touch of his oddly smooth tongue.  
  
Acatae’a almost doesn’t notice the hand that lets go of his hip—but then Haurchefant is touching his fingers to the wet mess that has dripped against Acatae’a’s stomach, the evidence of his own almost painful arousal.  
  
Though Haurchefant starts to smile against his neck, he’s merciful enough not to tease Acatae’a about the mess he’s made of himself as he instead wraps his now-damp fingers around Acatae’a’s neglected cock. His own movements slow so as to take care of him, the feeling of his calloused palm dragging another painful, wheezing moan out of Acatae’a’s chest.  
  
He won’t last long. He’s sure Haurchefant knows this—even if he hadn’t begun to touch him, Acatae’a is sure he would have finished soon enough. But with the extra stimulation of Haurchefant’s hand, he finds himself clenching down and trying not to squirm as he feels his orgasm approach.  
  
He tries to speak without thinking about it—all he gets for the attempt is sharp pain, quickly drowned out by the rise of his pleasure, stomach tightening and his damaged throat burning as he heaves for breath.  
  
Haurchefant strokes him through it, murmuring sweet words that Acatae’a barely processes as he drowns in the taste of his own blood and the feeling bone-deep satisfaction that spreads through him as his body grows limp beneath Haurchefant’s own.  
  
Ever a gentleman, Haurchefant moves to pull out, to finish himself off now that he’s taken care of Acatae’a—but Acatae’a uses what strength he has left to lock him in place with his legs, lifting his hands out of the torn mess he’s made of Haurchefant’s sheets to tell him, _“Keep going.”_  
  
Haurchefant looks at him with such genuine surprise that Acatae’a almost laughs.  
  
“You are…” he trails off, breathless, and shakes his head. Still, he leans in, pressing his mouth to Acatae’a’s jaw as he obeys.  
  
Aching and pleasantly sore, Acatae’a sighs and drifts as Haurchefant moves. He’s slower and gentler, now, and it doesn’t take long before he buries his face into Acatae’a’s neck, panting his name as he fills him with damp warmth.  
  
The only discomfort Acatae’a feels is when Haurchefant pulls out, face scrunching slightly at the sensation.  
  
“Oh, dear,” Haurchefant murmurs, almost to himself, a hand lifting to stroke Acatae’a’s hair with a look of concern. “I didn’t get carried away, did I?”  
  
_“Not at all,”_   Acatae’a signs, the movements sluggish. His arms are tired; his whole body is, and he feels as if he may finally be able to sleep for more than an hour. _“It was perfect. Thank you.”_  
  
“Good,” Haurchefant says, with relief in his tone and expression both. “Let me clean you up. Hold on…”  
  
Haurchefant drifts away. Acatae’a’s eyes slip shut as he grumbles at the loss of proximity and warmth, rolling onto his side and shoving his face against a sweat-dampened pillow. The bead in his braid digs into his scalp, but he doesn’t want to move again.  
  
_A few more minutes_ , he thinks to himself. Haurchefant will help him clean up, and then he should go back to the inn before Akhar or Alphinaud awaken to find him missing.  
  
He’s asleep before he even finishes the thought, though.

* * *

Acatae’a wakes up, briefly, to find himself with his face pressed into Haurchefant’s chest, the feeling of the man’s soft breathing tickling his scalp. He’s so tired he does nothing but cling a bit tighter to him, eyes slipping back shut as he drifts off again.  
  
The next time he wakes up it’s because of noise. Shuffling fabric, the sound of metal shifting against metal—his eyes flutter open and he sees Haurchefant through sleep-blurred vision, clasping his chainmail over his tunic.  
  
The hint of sunlight slipping through the thin parting of the curtains tells him it’s morning. Acatae’a groans noiselessly, throat painfully raw—he’ll have to prepare his medicine for it later, which he hasn’t needed to do in over a year.  
  
Though his throat is genuinely painful, the rest of his body aches in a pleasant way. He gropes blindly for the pillow Haurchefant had been using and clings to it in his stead, shoving his face against the material and appreciating the quality of the feathers inside.  
  
“Did I wake you? My apologies,” Haurchefant says, voice a whisper as Acatae’a hears him approach the bed. A hand touches his hair, so his eyes open once more, reluctantly. Haurchefant’s expression is fond, and if he were more awake Acatae’a would be concerned about this casual intimacy.  
  
As it is, he just huffs and Haurchefant chuckles.  
  
“Feel free to stay as long as you need. You deserve all the sleep you can get, after all. I shall send word to the inn,” he says, and Acatae’a grumbles and answers by shoving his face into the pillow again. Haurchefant’s laugh is far more obvious this time, but all he does is lightly scratch Acatae’a’s scalp near his ear before he pulls his hand back.  
  
The sound of the heavy door opening and closing makes him sigh. Curling up against the pillow that smells like Haurchefant and warm beneath the heavy blankets above him, Acatae’a starts to doze again.  
  
And then his eyes snap open as he processes everything that Haurchefant had said, as well as the fact it’s morning.  
  
Acatae’a stumbles out of bed so violently he experiences sharp vertigo, vision and head swimming briefly as he grabs at a wall for balance, sheets spilling onto the floor. His hips and back ache from the movement and he sucks in a sharp, uncomfortable breath, but only gives himself a few moments to get his bearings.  
  
As soon as the wave of dizziness passes he scrambles to grab his clothes—Haurchefant had folded them at some point, leaving them at the edge of the bed, but they had been knocked to the floor in Acatae’a’s hasty departure from its warm comfort.  
  
Still, the effort in that gesture briefly strikes him with confusion he doesn’t have the time to dwell on. He dresses as quickly as he can, barely taking the time to peer into a standing mirror Haurchefant has in the corner of his room. Acatae’a smooths out his hair as best he can, making sure his scarf covers his scarred throat and refusing to let himself take an extra moment to stare at the slight bruising left by Haurchefant’s mouth the night before.  
  
His sweater is rumpled beyond anything he can handle with his hands, but that’s fine. He can fix it later. As soon as he has his feet shoved into his boots, he stumbles out of Haurchefant’s chambers and nearly gives a young man walking by with a pile of laundry a heart attack.  
  
Acatae’a makes it out of the hall and into the main, open room just in time to witness Akhar grabbing a confused Haurchefant by the front of his armor and yanking him down to eye-level, shaking him with fury, their ears flat against their scalp and tail bristling.  
  
“Where the _hell_ is my fucking brother? Cid says he left in the middle of the godsdamned night, we need to—”  
  
Alphinaud, hovering behind Akhar, coughs.  
  
“Ah, Akhar…” he tries, but it’s useless. Akhar sees Acatae’a before he can say anything else; their eyes go wide, their violent grip on Haurchefant’s armor going slack.  
  
“A-As I was saying, your brother is perfectly safe,” Haurchefant tries to assure them, but Akhar is clearly hearing nothing as they stare at Acatae’a’s disheveled form in disbelief. Haurchefant turns to see what they’re staring at and briefly locks eyes with Acatae’a, his ears reddening and mouth parting with slight surprise.  
  
Akhar glances between them. Alphinaud, behind them, is politely glancing up toward the ceiling instead, his own face redder than Acatae’a has ever seen it.  
  
Before Akhar can say anything to humiliate him in front of Haurchefant and his guards, Acatae’a storms forward, grabs them by their scarf and starts tugging them out of the building. Akhar yelps but doesn’t protest, letting themself be dragged, stumbling to a halt when Acatae’a stops suddenly in front of the door.  
  
Quickly, he turns to Haurchefant, who is still staring. Unable to use his hands, Acatae’a ducks his head in a brief bow of appreciation, and finishes dragging Akhar outside.  
  
The heat of his embarrassment is more powerful than even the cold snow of Dragonhead. As Acatae’a drags his sibling towards the inn, he hears them muttering in disbelief about how “You _said_ it was impossible, that you’d _never_ ,” and knows he’s never going to live this down.


End file.
